Null and Void
by ficlit78
Summary: Set in Pink Chanel Suit.  Rigsby asks Grace about the necklace O'Laughlin gave her.  Ugh, travesty.  Rigsby has a think about it.  M for damn hell ass language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Set in _Pink Chanel Suit_, the scene where Rigsby and Grace are working at her desk. This whole situation is getting ree-goddamn-diculous. Just get back together already! Rigs' POV. I don't own Mentalist and am quickly getting to the point where I wouldn't want to. It's poisoning me.

**Null and Void**

Just like every other day I've ever seen her, she looked beautiful.

She was already digging deep into the paperwork in front of us. I'm heartened to see that my presence no longer unnerves her the way it has for so many months. She's content to sit with me, to work with me, and not let the tension between us bother her anymore. I'm saddened to wonder if perhaps her love for O'Laughlin has made that tension disappear entirely. That's what it must be, right? Love? Grace is so very careful when she gives her heart away, but when she does (and don't I know it), she gives it completely. So that would explain it. She's comfortable with me because she doesn't feel heartbroken anymore. God, that would be so unfair. Here I am, a tenuous fuckin' hold on my sanity, and there she sits, healed and happy and belonging to another man. I try to bite my tongue, but it evades me.

My eyes lingered on her flawless skin as I asked her about the foreign necklace nestled against it. She looked up, surprised at my question. My gut twisted when she smiled. _Really_ smiled. She blushed and answered my next question about it being a gift. I tortured myself and asked if it was from _him_. Her smile killed me when it intensified and she said yes. Not only did she admit to the giver, she did it without a moment's hesitation.

She must love the man, that's as plain as day.

I dropped my head, my forced smile leaving a bitter, choking taste in my mouth.

For a tiny second, her expression softened and I saw that she could see my struggles. Mercifully, she ignored it and went back to work. She let me be sick without an audience, and I remembered again why it was so easy to love a kind soul.

Right from the beginning, she'd made it clear that she'd been hurting. She'd given me that solace, knowing that my dating other women was bruising the broken pieces of her heart. And she'd been such a trooper about it, too, saying it was no big deal, that she'd get over it, asking simply for my friendship. Her face had been so sincere, the pain in her eyes had gratified as well as stung me. Her sadness destroyed me, almost making me forget that she's the one who ended us, not me. Like always, I answered with no eloquence that I wanted to be friends, as well. I have no idea what I meant when I said that. Grace and I, for all of our closeness, were never just friends. Not even in the eighteen months before we'd been together. Looking back, I guess I hadn't let it happen. I wanted her too much. Fantasized about her too much. Friendship seemed like a neutered farce of what I really wanted. And everyone knew it too, Grace included. I thought I'd been playing it cool at the time, but on further examination, I can see now that I wordlessly confronted her every single day with how I felt. I followed too close when she took point. I defended her against Jane and pervy suspects when they overstepped their place. I made our stakeouts awkward on purpose a little. I stood in her line of sight more often than I had to. I shut down when she talked about dates. I bullied her boyfriend. And my eyes were full of so much interest, furtive appraisal and guilt that I'm sure it spooked her a little. Trying to befriend me wasn't possible, knowing what she knew. So politeness is where it stayed, only to skip over friendship entirely and land squarely in romance.

And that's exactly where I wanted us. For a few short months, I was a stupidly happy man.

I looked up at her, watching her diligence as she tore through the file in front of her.

The truth is that I want to reach across the tiny space between us, fist that delicate chain around her neck, and rip as hard as I can. Then I want to throw it out the window. Then I want to run downstairs, pull my car around and drive over that tiny proof of his ownership over and over until it's a dirty, glinting speck in the asphalt. Only then would I come back, cup my hands over that now empty space over her heart, and know it wasn't just empty of O'Laughlin's fucking necklace. It would be empty of _him_.

When I think of how many times I've kissed her there. That beautiful body of hers. Goddamn, she's perfect. Her arms went around my neck when she straddled my lap on the sofa. I'd press my forehead into her chest and just breathe her in as she played with my hair and murmured my name. She wore her own necklaces then. Shorter chains and more feminine pendants meant that I could kiss my way between her tempting breasts, north until I buried my face in her throat and groaned with need. She told me that she loved my eyes. My face. My tall body, which had skulked around her for so long that she'd forgotten what it was like to not feel me nearby.

O'Laughlin doesn't have my eyes or my damn face. As usual, he's shorter than me. All of them, no matter which men she allows into her life, will be shorter than me, unless she starts dating a Laker. So what the hell does she see when she looks at him? God, I'd like to know. It's driving me insane. Alone in her apartment, or worse, in her bed, when she touches his face or pets him with her electrifying fingers, does she think of me at all? Does she miss me? Can I even hope that she imagines me? When she looks into his darker eyes at a height closer to her own, is she disappointed?

_I_ am, which is why I'm so desperate. As much as I want my height to ruin other men for her, Grace's red hair (at the very least) has ruined other women for _me_. The first thing - _the very first thing_ - I notice about the women I meet is that their hair will never compare to hers. Blonde, black, brunette and every variation in between is just plain wrong. I feel so terrible, smiling politely at their sweet faces and instantly shutting down on them. My silence, a curse for so long, is a blessing as they chatter away and my mind goes somewhere else. Somewhere red. And while I've met taller women, Grace's height is also rare enough to make me miss it like crazy. Like Goldilocks, I'd finally found the woman who fit me _juuuuust_ right. Not too small or big, not too hot or cold, not too soft or hard. Freaking perfect in every way. _Goddammit._

His necklace caught the light and flashed in my eye, rudely bringing me back to the moment. _Fuck you_, O'Laughlin's necklace taunted me. _Keep dreamin', buddy. She's mine now. This achingly pretty spot between her breasts that you love so much is just for me. You didn't spoil her like I do. You didn't love her openly like I do. I can walk in any second and steal her away. Lunch. Dinner. A quick fuck in my car. I can do anything. If you hadn't been such a pussy, she never would have even remembered my name._

I crushed my eyes shut, willing the voice to go away. It's not telling me anything I don't already know. Grace is gone. She's with another man.

I've lost the great love of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Pretty sure this is how Grace would be feeling on the other side of that desk. Or so I pretend in my mind. Her POV.

Lisbon's orders were barely out of her mouth before Wayne was pulling a chair up to my desk. As we began to pick at the mountain of paperwork in front of us, that struck me as a little funny. After all these months, the sadness and avoidance have glazed his eyes a permanently darker shade of blue. For a long time, he wouldn't even look at me, not that I could blame him or even look back. But despite the pain I put him through, his immediate response to an order to work with me it to _come_ to me. I've never, ever had to go to him. He hung around my desk for ages, even before we were together, leaning next to me as I sat, looking down at me with hope and a fraction of an excuse to talk.

As he sat directly across from me, it's nice to see some things never change.

When he talks to me about work stuff now, he's started looking at me again. God protect me from how wildly, frighteningly happy that makes me. The whole reason I destroyed us in the first place was so I could console myself with the wreckage. A broken, sad coworker-turned-boyfriend-turned-coworker again is at least someone I can see everyday. A lover who banished himself to San Fransisco in order to salvage our love would have drifted away from me entirely. He's too wonderful to see this, but I do. Eventually, he would have regretted choosing me. And while he may not have _hated _me (as I told him for effect), he would have been miserable. He would have come home to me with a stiff upper lip and a brave smile and grit his teeth while he asked me about my day in a building that he missed like crazy. At first, he would have consoled himself with his prize. He had me. He sacrificed for me. That's what real men do. That would have been enough for him, I'd say for six months at the max. But neither I nor he wants me to be a simple consolation prize, and in the end, he would have stayed out of dogged loyalty. That's also what real men do. They stick. A decision is made and its consequences are lived with. That's the kind of honorable man he is.

And I would die a lingering death. Consolation? Loyalty? Consequence?

My heart would clog with guilt, knowing it was responsible for his misery. And my pride and self-respect would die as well, knowing he saw me as an obligation and no longer a prize.

Wayne had cherished me so uniquely, so purely. I despised a future where I became his albatross.

So instead of letting him slip away slowly, I sank him. Now he's broken and angry and I can bask in the masochistic pleasure of losing him, but keeping him close.

He started dating rather quickly. Too quickly, if anyone bothered to ask me. Deep down, I knew they weren't special. I knew he'd leave them the second I asked him to and pleadingly renew his offer. Still. The fragmented mentions of their names and smudges of lipstick on his cheek enraged me. I wanted to slap him hard across that cheek and obliterate that kiss. I wanted to steal his phone and call every woman listed on it, lying through my teeth that he's my husband. The father of our children. Stay the hell away from him, you home wreckers. Then I'd hang up and slip it back in his coat like it never happened. I'd want every single one of those women to slap him as well and berate him for cheating on me. _I sound so wonderful,_ they'd accuse. _She's your wife. She loves you. How could you do this to her? _

Obviously, I won't be doing that. I'm not wonderful. I'm not his wife. And as much as I love him, I did this to him first.

Wayne asked me a question and I looked up from my file. My necklace. He noticed it. Of course he noticed it. I smiled out of reflex, happy he wanted to talk to me. I answered that yes, it was new. He surprised me when he guessed that it was from Craig. My chest squeezed warningly when I said yes.

The blue went darker still and he lowered his head, averting his pain. At this rate, I'll turn his eyes as black as tar.

I looked down and kept working. There's nothing to say. I'm hurt. He's hurt. We both go home to warm bodies and push ourselves to want them. I know nothing about the women he brings home. I don't know if he's found someone special, or if they're just a string on convenient finds. I don't want to know. Just like I'm sure he doesn't want to know about Craig. I would have tried to keep it from him, but he'd already met him. Then Craig keeps coming to pick me up at work, so Wayne keeps seeing him. I want to tell Craig to stop, that I'll meet him somewhere else, but I'm afraid he'll want to know why. Am I embarrassed by him? Does my team not like him? I would shake my head, but stall at the truth. I can't very well say that Rigsby and I are brokenhearted ex-lovers and Craig's presence is a cruelty I don't want to inflict. That's not fair to Craig. He's a nice man, after all. He tries hard.

I bit my lip.

Comparisons are inevitable. The first being that I'm in love with Wayne and not Craig. That's the insurmountable truth. If I'd met Agent O'Laughlin before I'd met Agent Rigsby, things might have turned out very different. After all, my man from the FBI is outgoing and confident. He stands strong, dragging all eyes in the room to him. When I'm with him, there is no insecurity in his eyes, only desire. He wants me and isn't afraid of that want. When he puts his hands on me, he never questions himself. His sure sweeps of my body only highlight that I'm unused to such certainty. I should take pleasure in it. Confidence is sexy, after all. But...

I looked up through my lashes at the man sitting across from me, his dark head lowered from my eyes as he read, evading me.

My man from the CBI. He's another story entirely. One I barely got to read before it was taken away from me. Here sat a man who tore himself to pieces fighting his love for me. There was no certainty in the way he adored me from afar, only to turn away and cough with embarrassment when I looked in his direction. He didn't stand strong, not for me. He lurked. He watched. He pined. And on any other man, it would have been creepy as hell. But there was something about his shyness, his purity of intentions, that eventually propelled me into his stunned embrace. I can't explain it. Maybe I felt that his nervousness was gratifying. That men shouldn't just assume that because they found a woman attractive, they should just dive in and start flirting willy-nilly. Maybe I realized that Wayne believed I was special, worthy of more than an after-work beer and strategic flattery geared towards a screw.

Wayne Rigsby. He made love _for_ me long before he made love _to_ me. I felt it waft around me, warm and accepting, even when he was three hours away on a case. I felt it follow me home, hovering around me and hugging me close as I watched tv and brushed my teeth before bed. It wrapped around me in bed, holding me tight as I slept. I recognized it when I took him to bed for real and felt his arms slide into the same place around me. The feeling was identical, only now I returned it. If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him not to look so sad about Craig's necklace. Or the lunches. Or the fact that I go home to him.

Wayne's silent adoration has poisoned me. It's the only love I want.


End file.
